


beat the devil's tattoo

by WeeBeastie



Series: after all verse [5]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, M/M, Some cute domestic fluff, and eventually sex because obviously, old pirate husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 04:24:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10846419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeBeastie/pseuds/WeeBeastie
Summary: you have admired what every man desires, everyone is king when there's no one left to pawni thread the needle through, you beat the devil's tattoo





	beat the devil's tattoo

**Author's Note:**

> This piece has been swirling around in my brain for a while and has finally taken shape. It is part of the ‘after all’ verse, set a few years after the original story, and will probably make the most sense if you read the first two pieces at least of that universe before you read this. Or you could jump right in, why not?!
> 
> Title and lyrics in the description taken from “Beat the Devil’s Tattoo” by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
> 
> Thanks to Elle for her continued service as a muse for myself and this fandom at large. Huge thanks also to [vowelinthug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug), who inspired the erotic use of psalm 139:14 that eventually shows up (and also thanks for the orange verse for a lot of reasons).
> 
> Rated E for a sexy sex scene but buckle up kids because there’s angst first. The old pirate husbands argue, I’m warning you now. It was painful to write! But it ends happily, I swear.
> 
> Thank you also to everyone who reads this. I’m writing these notes a little drunk on a Friday night and I LOVE YOU ALL. Seriously though this fandom is the best. <3

It starts with a quiet knock at the door.

Silver is in the kitchen one evening around sundown, preparing supper while Flint is in the sitting room with a book. Flint hears the knock and frowns a little, not wanting to get up from his comfortable position on the overstuffed chaise unless absolutely necessary.

“John?” Flint calls. “Get the door, would you please?” No response. Flint sighs and sets his book aside, grumbling to himself as he gets up. “I know you heard me, you're not so old you've gone deaf,” he calls to Silver, smoothing his soft white hair back from his face as he goes to the front door.

When he opens it, there's no one there, just a small paper-wrapped package on the front porch addressed simply ‘Jean.’ Flint glances around surreptitiously, then picks the package up and shuts the door, padding barefoot into the kitchen and setting it on the table.

“This was outside, no one was there. I didn't see who left it but it's for you,” Flint says as he sits down, pushing the sleeves of his sage green shirt up to his elbows. It's warm and steamy in the little farmhouse kitchen, and whatever Silver has been working on smells fantastic, like lemon and onions and something spicy.

“For me?” Silver repeats, frowning. He's resplendent in a deep blue shirt and dark trousers, his gray-streaked hair pulled partway back. He dries his hands on the apron tied at his hips, picking up the small brown package and tearing into it. A folded piece of paper flutters out, and something tiny and metallic falls with a clunk on to the tabletop.

Silver picks up the paper first and unfolds it, starting to read silently to himself, while Flint picks up the tiny object. On closer inspection it's a ring, delicately made, with flowers engraved into the band and a small red stone in the center. It looks like it was made to suit a woman.

When Flint looks up from examining the ring, he's shocked to see what looks like utter devastation on Silver’s face. “John, what's wrong?” he asks, concerned.

“It’s from Madi. That's her ring, the one I...it's her wedding ring. The letter is in her hand.” Silver sits down heavily at the table, his hands visibly shaking. “She wrote me to explain that she's given my ring back because she's remarried,” he says.

“Oh, John,” Flint says, putting the ring down on the table and looking up, seeing Silver’s disconsolate expression and feeling a deep, aching sadness for him in his own heart. “I’m so sorry,” he says, feeling rather helpless in the face of something this monumental. He stands abruptly and does the only thing he can think of: he takes over making supper.

“What are you doing?” Silver mumbles, picking up the ring and clutching it in one hand, the little note in the other. He looks like he can't quite make sense of either thing.

“I’ll finish making supper. You need to do what's best for you right now. Go and lie down, or read a book, or play with the dog. We'll go to the tavern in town after supper and I'll get you drunk,” Flint says. He knows his coping methods aren't exactly the best, but it's all he knows to do. He's also aware that Silver isn't exactly the type to want to engage in a long, drawn out discussion about his feelings, even though it would benefit him to do so.

Silver gets up from the table as though in a fog and retreats upstairs, taking the ring with him but leaving the note behind. Flint hears the bedroom door slam shut and fights the urge to drop everything and follow Silver, take him into his arms and hold him until he smiles again and the tightness in Flint’s chest can ease. Instead he picks up the note and reads it over, wondering exactly what Madi has to say to her former husband so many years after their split. He feels a little guilty for reading it, like he might be invading Silver’s privacy.

‘Dear John,’ the letter begins, ‘I hope this writing finds you well. I think of you often; I have heard little of Long John Silver these past years and I find myself hoping this means you have given up that dangerous, destructive life for good. I am returning the ring you gave to me in marriage not out of any malice or ill will toward you, but because I have married another man and am wearing his ring now. It seemed inappropriate to me to keep yours, all things considered, although I do still feel some fondness for it and for the sweet memories you and I share of the better years of our marriage. I am very happy now in my new life, and my sincerest wish is that you are, too, in yours. Find peace, John, and live well. With my love, Madi.’

Flint sets the letter down, feeling unsettled. It seems to him that Madi has been as polite and even loving as is reasonable in her letter, although it's possible Silver has read something between the lines that isn't obvious to Flint. In any case, he can certainly understand why Silver is so upset, even given Madi’s kindness. He shakes his head to clear the words of the letter from his mind and resumes making supper, hoping a good meal and a drink or several will help soothe Silver.

At supper Silver barely eats, and he makes no attempts at conversation. Flint cleans up afterward and gets his coat, bringing Silver his and holding it out to him.

“I can do it myself,” Silver snaps. He puts his coat on without Flint’s help and they leave the house together, walking in awkward, heavy silence.

“John,” Flint starts to say once they're halfway down the road into town, “I know this all must be terribly difficult for you, and I am so sorry this has hap--”

“Don’t fucking start. I don't want to talk about it, not now, not ever,” Silver says without looking at Flint. 

“Alright,” Flint says with a quiet sigh. They arrive at the tavern a few minutes later and Flint follows Silver inside. “You get a table, I'll get the drinks,” he tells Silver, who doesn't reply, just stalks off to find them a table. Flint secures them each a pint of strong, cloudy ale from the proprietor, a man named de Lioncourt. He finds Silver at a dimly lit corner table, already rolling a cigarette. “Here,” Flint says, putting both tankards on the table and sitting down.

Silver just grunts in reply and lights his cigarette with the low candle on their table, taking a long drag from it and sitting back, studying Flint. He looks like he might want to say something, but he stays silent, smoke curling from his nostrils like a dragon.

The evening passes slowly, since Silver isn't talking and Flint quickly grows frustrated with trying to hold a conversation alone. He limits himself to two tankards of the strong, dark ale, but fetches Silver as many as he wants, eventually losing count.

By the time the bartender de Lioncourt comes around to tell them the tavern is closing for the night, Silver is blind drunk. Flint helps him to his feet despite his protests, and they make their way unsteadily out into the town center and toward the road that will take them home.

“Let me go, I can walk on my own,” Silver slurs as they go down the road together, shrugging Flint’s arm off him almost violently. As soon as he does, he loses his balance and pitches forward, falling hard on to the dirt road. Flint goes to help him up but Silver starts retching and is sick into the ditch next to the road.

Flint rubs Silver’s back with one hand and futilely strokes his hair back from his face with the other, finding himself feeling even more helpless than before. Once it seems like Silver is finished being sick, Flint helps him up and walks with him the rest of the way home.

As soon as they arrive home, Flint is focused on cleaning Silver up, tending to any wounds he might've gained by falling, and putting him to bed. Silver, though, has other ideas. He walks stiffly into the kitchen, off-kilter, picking up Madi’s letter and then tossing it aside in disgust.

“Married another man,” Silver slurs, starting to go through the cabinets restlessly, as though he's looking for something. “Of course she did, of _course_ she did, and why shouldn't she? Her first husband is a fucking monster!” he shouts, and punctuates his sentence by throwing the teacup in his hand to the floor, smashing it to pieces.

Flint is taken aback by Silver’s sudden shift in mood. He's seen him drunk and maudlin, and he's seen him sober and furious, but he's never seen him so drunk and so angry at the same time. Silver is stalking the length of the kitchen unsteadily, red in the face, looking like he can't bear to stay still.

“John, please come to bed. You're not in your right mind,” Flint says gently, trying to be patient and kind with him. Silver is so distraught and Flint just wants to fix everything for him.

“I don't care,” Silver says, pausing in front of Flint, struggling to focus his eyes on him. “I’m allowed, aren't I? My _wife_ married another man. After she left me. Because I made her so unhappy, she couldn't _stand_ to be married to me!” he exclaims, and suddenly his face falls, realization dawning. “It’s all my fault,” he says, swaying forward so that Flint has to grab him quickly by the shoulders lest he fall again. “It’s all my fault. Everything is my fault.”

“Come on, let's get to bed,” Flint says, swallowing past the lump in his throat. The tortured tone of Silver’s voice is wrecking him. He gathers him up in his arms and half-carries him up the staircase to bed, murmuring to him soothingly as he goes. Silver doesn't protest the help this time, all the fight suddenly gone out of him.

“Everyone leaves me,” Silver says morosely as Flint sits him down on the bed and takes off his one boot, then starts helping him out of his clothes. “Everyone leaves me, James. I'm going to wake up one day and you'll be gone too,” he says, his eyes large and wet, his gaze faraway, when Flint looks at him.

“Stop that. Look at me, John. I'm not going anywhere,” Flint assures him, pulling off his own clothes and joining Silver in their bed. He puts his arms around him and pulls him close, not caring that Silver’s skin is clammy and he smells like tobacco and sick.

Silver passes out a few minutes later but Flint lies awake for a long time, holding Silver’s sleeping, wheezing form close and staring up at the ceiling in the darkness.

 

\---

 

The next morning Flint is surprised to find Silver is already out of bed when he wakes. He gets up and puts on his trousers, then hurries downstairs, pulling a pale blue shirt on over his head as he goes.

Silver is in the kitchen, and he looks a sight. His hair is pulled messily back from his face and he's wearing an oversized black shirt that's hanging off one shoulder. Flint can see where he's bruised from falling in the road the night before, and he can tell Silver is hungover because he's making them coffee instead of tea. The smashed teacup from the night before has been cleared away as though it was never there.

“Good morning,” Flint greets him cautiously, not sure what kind of mood Silver will be in.

“Morning,” Silver says in response, subdued. He pours them each a cup of coffee and adds the requisite sugar and milk to Flint’s, then sits at the table with him.

“How do you feel?” Flint asks, looking into Silver’s tired, shadowed blue eyes.

“Like complete shit,” Silver says, rubbing one hand over his beard. “My head hurts, my guts ache, and I desperately need to wash the sick out of my hair but I landed so hard on my shoulder last night, I don't think I could stand to have my hands over my head for that long.”

“I can help you,” Flint offers, staring down into his coffee. “I know you'd do the same for me,” he says.

“I wouldn't have to, because you're not fucking stupid enough to get utterly pissed and fall on your face in the road,” Silver says, pressing his lips into a thin line. 

“I’ve had similar nights,” Flint says, and sips his coffee. It's perfect, and he silently marvels - not for the first time - at Silver’s ability to make things just to his taste.

“Alright, fine,” Silver relents with a scowl, taking a long sip of his coffee and settling into his chair, staring off into the distance and looking lost in thought. He doesn't say anything else.

Once they've both finished their coffee, they retreat upstairs so Flint can draw Silver a bath and help wash his hair. He gets the bath ready and tenderly undresses Silver, who protests a little but lets Flint do it anyway.

“I’m not a child,” Silver mutters as he eases himself down into the steaming water, hissing quietly as he does.

“No, you aren't. But you need my help, and you and I help each other. It's part of loving someone,” Flint says, pulling over a stool and sitting down by the side of the tub. As he starts washing Silver’s hair, he hears toenails clicking on the floor, and realizes a moment later that their great beast of a dog has joined them. He settles on the floor near Flint’s feet, staring balefully up at Silver. “Your lad is here to make sure you don't drown in the bath,” Flint says.

“Hello, son,” Silver says, hanging one hand over the edge of the tub. Junior licks his tattooed fingers, glad to see the bathtub hasn't swallowed him up for good.

“You don't know this,” Flint addresses Junior, “but your daddy is actually quite a strong swimmer. Terrible diver, though. Flops right on his belly.”

“That was one time,” Silver protests under his breath, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He's enjoying having someone else wash his hair, Flint can tell.

Flint just smiles to himself and rinses the soap from Silver’s hair with his cupped hands, then picks up the little bottle of oil Silver uses to make his curls easier to comb out. It smells like oranges, and the scent always makes Flint feel calm and happy, like he's right at home. He doesn't quite understand it, but neither does he question it.

“I love how this smells on you,” he says as he works the oil into Silver’s hair and picks up the comb.

“You’ve said as much before. That's one reason I keep using it,” Silver replies, keeping his eyes shut.

Flint begins working the comb gently through his hair, marveling at how much longer it really is when it’s weighed down by water. “John,” he begins, wanting to see if perhaps he can get him to talk now that he's so relaxed.

“Stop,” Silver says, not unkindly. “Please. I-- I'm not ready. Not yet. I'll come to you when I am,” he says.

“Of course,” Flint murmurs, and slowly finishes combing Silver’s curls out for him while Junior keeps a wary eye on both of them. “You have more gray in your hair than you did when you first came here,” he observes softly, running his fingers through Silver’s damp, slippery curls. “I like it.”

“It isn't gray, it's silver. But thank you,” he murmurs in response, keeping his eyes shut.

Once Silver is out of the bath, dried off and dressed again, he and Flint retreat back downstairs to go on with the day. Flint would rather Silver spend the day resting after his rough night, but of course Silver won't hear of it, determinedly going outside to tend to the animals, Junior at his heel like an oversized shadow.

 

\---

 

A week or so later, Flint comes back from selling their crops at the market in town and finds Silver in the kitchen, humming something under his breath that sounds unusually dark and threatening - a shanty, Flint thinks, but when he tries to remember the words all he can think of is nonsense sounds: ‘na na na,’ and so on.

At Silver’s side, clinging to his crutch, is a small child just barely old enough to walk. She's barefoot, and has a curlicue of black hair and gray upturned eyes that put Flint in mind of a pixie.

“Where did you find this one?” Flint asks as he sits at the kitchen table, feeling hot and tired after a long day’s work. He's gotten used to small creatures, human and otherwise, following Silver home. The neighborhood children love him, especially the brood that belongs to Antoinette, their next door neighbor. The mothers were all naturally wary at first, but have warmed up to Silver after seeing how good he is with their children.

“Fairies left her on the front porch and took one of our chickens in exchange,” Silver deadpans, then relents. “This is Seraphine, she's Antoinette’s youngest,” he says. The little girl regards Flint with a distrustful expression, unnaturally serious and quiet for someone so small. Flint feels a certain kinship with her already.

“She had another? I thought Marie was her youngest,” Flint says as Seraphine toddles around to Silver’s other side, grasping the leg of his trousers in her tiny delicate fingers.

“Yes, a while ago now, clearly. Did you really not see she was with child again? Talk to your neighbors sometime, James, Christ,” Silver mutters, an edge to his voice.

“That makes seven for her, doesn't it? No wonder so many of them find their way over here, it must be impossible to keep track of them all,” he says. Seraphine lets go of Silver and makes her way to Flint, setting one little hand on his knee and looking at him imploringly. “Oh. Hello,” Flint says warily.

“She wants you to pick her up. Go on, then, she's just a baby. She's not a wild animal,” Silver says, glancing up from his work. He sounds like he's annoyed with Flint, which has become a much more common occurrence over the recent days.

“Alright,” Flint says, and lifts Seraphine up, setting her in his lap. She regards him solemnly for a long moment, then rests her head on his chest, sighs, and falls asleep with her fingers in her mouth. “She’s asleep,” Flint says, looking at Silver. He has basically no experience with babies, and doesn't feel like he's a natural with them the way Silver is.

“So let her sleep. She's probably exhausted from following me and Junior round the kitchen all day,” Silver says. He puts down the wooden spoon he'd been holding and looks at Flint. “Did you ever want children?” he asks softly, suddenly, vulnerability in his eyes.

“Not particularly,” Flint says honestly. “I have nothing against them, obviously, just...didn't see myself as a family man. Miranda talked about having children with me, after--” He pauses, clears his throat. Talking about Miranda and that time in his life still has an effect on him. “But I didn't want to do that to her. Leave her and the child alone in that little house on that godforsaken island for months at a time,” he says, looking down at Seraphine. “Besides which, Captain Flint wouldn't have made a very good father.”

“Neither would Long John Silver,” Silver murmurs, then shakes his head. He ambles over to Flint and holds his arms out. “Here, let me take her next door to her mother. I'm sure she'll be happy to see her asleep,” he says.

Flint stands, holding Seraphine close to his chest. He looks at Silver and looks at the baby between them, feeling something heavy in the air that neither he nor Silver really wants to name. After a moment the spell breaks, and he hands the still-sleeping infant to Silver. “Here,” he says, and Silver tucks her into his side, wrapping his right arm firmly around her.

“I’ll take her home and then I'll come right back. Supper is almost ready. Don't give Junior any more of the meat, by the way, he'll beg you for some but he's already had enough,” Silver says, then leaves the kitchen and quietly goes out of the house to return Seraphine to her parents.

Flint sighs, toeing off his shoes and sitting down again, stretching his legs out. Junior, predictably, chooses that moment to lope over to Flint and lean on him, wearing an expression of hunger and sorrow. He whines, doing an excellent impression of a dog who is utterly starved.

“No, you are not,” Flint says, scratching Junior behind the ears even as he chastises him. “You heard your daddy, you've already had enough treats today,” he says, then sighs. “Does he talk to you when I'm not home, hm? Does he have conversations with you like I do?” he asks, but the dog just stares back, silent. “I know, he talks all the fucking time, even in his sleep. But he doesn't always talk about the things that matter. Things I'd like to know about, but I can't ask because he's already told me off and said he'll talk when he's ready, even though I know he won't. He never does,” he muses, patting Junior absently. “I suppose we deserve each other, in that respect. It took both of us so stupidly long to say many important things to each other. There is just still so much I don't know about him, and it...concerns me. I want to help him, and he needs help, he's just too goddamn stubborn to accept it from me. I wish he'd see reason. He can't bear this all on his own forever, it'll make him even more miserable than he already is.”

Flint is so lost in his one-sided conversation, he doesn't hear Silver coming back in, and in fact doesn't even notice he's there until Silver speaks. “I will. Talk. But only if and when I'm ready to do so,” Silver says, and the sound of his voice makes Flint jump.

“Of course. I didn't mean--” Flint starts to say, caught off-guard.

“For me to overhear you talking to the _dog_ about the problems you have with me? Yes, I'm aware,” Silver says, that same irritation creeping back into his voice. He resumes the work he'd been doing before, frowning deeply as he finishes making their supper. “You act like it's so fucking easy, saying everything that needs to be said. You're a hypocrite that way, you know, James. You're not exactly an open book yourself, but you judge me for needing to keep some parts of myself private.”

“I don't-- how many times have we had this argument? Let’s not start it up again, please. I'm too tired,” Flint says, feeling his temper starting to get the better of him. He's been as patient as he can be with Silver, understanding none of this is easy for him, but Silver’s attitude is getting under his skin.

“Because you don't want to, we're not going to do it, is that right? Sometimes I think you still see me as one of your crew, someone to blindly follow your orders and either do things or abstain from doing them because it's what you want,” Silver snaps, throwing down the dish towel in his hands in frustration. “Maybe I do want to have this argument again. I'm not your fucking quartermaster, I don't have to just do what _you_ want.”

“That isn't who we are anymore, and you know it. You're being ridiculous. It's not fair to throw that part of our history back at me,” Flint says, getting to his feet. He can feel his teeth clenching, a muscle in his jaw jumping. Silver has his tattooed arms folded over his broad chest, a closed-off, angry look on his face.

“That _part_ of our history? That is our whole fucking history up until the last few years!” Silver exclaims. “And not fair?” he echoes, incredulous. “What, pray tell, the fuck do you know about not fair? The life you've led, the chances you've had. Talk to _me_ about not fair,” he snarls, getting closer to Flint until they're almost nose to nose. Silver has never been the type to spoil for a fight the way Flint does, but they can both be too stubborn to back down at times like these.

“Did you even think before you said that just now?” Flint demands him, hearing his own voice getting louder. He's aghast at Silver’s insensitivity. “What do I know about not fair? I'll tell you it all over again, shall I, even though I've told you _everything_ about myself and my life before, even though you know it all already despite my apparent hypocrisy in wanting _you_ to talk,” Flint growls from between clenched teeth, leaning down into Silver’s personal space. 

“Don’t fucking bother, _Captain_ ,” Silver spits, and Flint hates his own visceral reaction to hearing that again after so long. Silver must see it because a look of smug satisfaction crosses his face before he returns to looking furious. “I’m going out. Don't wait up for me,” Silver says lowly, then turns away and stalks out of the kitchen, much louder than usual. The front door bangs open, then shut, and Flint hears Silver on the front steps. Then he's gone.

Flint rubs both hands over his face, wondering how they've gotten to this point. A part of him wants to follow Silver outside and see if he can't talk him down, but he knows Silver well enough to know he's better off alone for the moment.

He is going to wait up for him, though, after supper and a good stiff drink. The little shit can just fucking deal with that, as far as Flint’s concerned. He eats alone and then settles himself in the parlor with his best bottle of rum, determined to wait Silver out.

“I told you not to wait up.”

Flint opens his eyes some hours later and finds himself lying on the couch in the parlor, Silver’s angry face hovering over his own, blurry for a moment before snapping into focus. “What time is it?” he asks, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Somewhere between midnight and dawn, fuck if I know. Come on. You can't sleep here, you'll be sore tomorrow and I'll never hear the fucking end of it,” Silver says. He doesn't seem drunk, but he smells like he's been at the tavern.

Flint gets up with a groan that he stifles because he doesn't want Silver to be right, and then follows him upstairs. “Do you have anything you want to say to me before we go to bed?” Flint asks, almost snidely, then mentally kicks himself for poking the bear that is an angry John Silver.

“What makes you think now is a good time to take that patronizing arsehole tone with me? Have you got any sense left at all? Stop trying so fucking hard to wheedle things out of me, James, for the love of god. Have a little respect for my intelligence, I may not be as smart as you but I can still see through you when you do that,” Silver snaps back once they're in the bedroom, violently yanking his black shirt off over his head. He's been wearing black every day since he got Madi’s letter. It hasn't escaped Flint’s notice, and he's not sure how he feels about it.

“Fine,” Flint eventually says with a put-upon sigh. He feels exhausted, the wind gone from his sails now that he's more tired than angry. “You talk when you want to, John, I'll wait. An hour, a day, forever - whatever it takes,” he says wearily. The words feel familiar to him, but he's too tired to figure out why, or why Silver all of a sudden looks so distraught.

They go to bed, Silver stripped bare like usual and Flint in a soft old nightshirt, without another word passing between them. They sleep back to back, not touching, miles of empty bed stretching between them.

 

\---

 

The next few weeks pass with the two of them being mostly civil but rather strained toward each other. Silver continues to wear black and get easily irritated, especially by Flint, and Flint feels a little like his jaw might permanently lock up with how much he's been gritting his teeth, especially around Silver.

One evening, though, Flint arrives home after another long day in town and finds that the mood has shifted. The house seems cleaner than usual and brighter somehow. He can hear Silver singing something light and happy in the kitchen, a sound he's missed in the long dark days since Madi’s letter arrived. He toes off his shoes by the front door and decides to follow that welcome sound.

Flint approaches the kitchen a bit cautiously and finds Silver putting the finishing touches on a roast chicken, his favorite. There's also a peach pie cooling on the windowsill, there are fresh wildflowers in a vase on the table, and Silver is wearing a bright blue shirt that Flint has complimented him on before. It makes his eyes look like the clear, calming waters of the Caribbean.

“What is all this?” Flint asks as he sits down, eyeing Silver warily, still not entirely convinced he hasn't wandered into a trap. There are _flowers_ , for Christ’s sake. Flowers that Silver evidently picked for _him_.

“I’ve lulled you into a false sense of security so that I can fatten you up and eat you, obviously,” Silver says, then clears his throat and takes a seat at the table across from Flint. He reaches for him and Flint obliges, letting Silver take one of his hands in both his own. “I’m in the mood to talk, actually. To you.”

“Go on,” Flint says, and does his best not to become distracted by just how good Silver looks in that shirt.

“Firstly I should apologize. I've been a shit even by my own standards, and you don't deserve that. No, let me talk,” Silver says when Flint tries to interject and say something to mollify him. “I have a fair amount of-- guilt, and shame, for the person I was. You know better than anyone how difficult it can be to live with yourself after a lifetime playing the villain, but instead of turning toward you and accepting your help with that I pushed you away, out of a misguided attempt to...distance myself, pull away before you could do it first. I am sorry, for all of that,” he says, his throat working. “I also need to talk about my failed marriage, which is one of my least favorite subjects of conversation, but it has to be done.

“I was a bad husband to her, James. Not outright cruel, but I was distant and moody, rarely home, and I was not the man she thought she was agreeing to a life with. She had every right to leave me, and the thought that I made her so miserable for so long is...it still haunts me to this day, even so many years after she left. When she wrote to tell me she'd remarried, it reminded me that I'd had my chance to make her happy, and had failed in the worst way because _I_ wasn't happy and no amount of love and devotion between her and I could fix me. I became angry when I read that letter, not at her but at myself,” he says, looking down at the tabletop and back up at Flint. “And when you tried to pull me out of that destructive, angry, guilty place I put myself in, when you were so gentle and patient with me, all I could think about was how many happy years you had with Thomas. I tortured myself with thoughts about how he would never do something like smash a teacup on the floor or get staggering drunk in an effort to address his frankly overwhelming emotions. I told myself that here I was being a bad husband all over again, like it was inevitable, except this time you were the one suffering at my hand. I thought, he's going to leave me too, and he'll be right to do it.

“It was Thomas, actually, who helped me see that I needed to turn back toward you and tell you all this, ask for your help in living with myself and let you love me the way I am without being quite so caught up in my own head and the way that I think people judge me. His words, at least.” He gives Flint’s hand a little squeeze. “For some time now a voice has been whispering in my ear. Three words, and it took me days to remember where I'd read them and why they kept resonating so deeply within me. Do you remember that copy of _Meditations_ you used to have so long ago, when you and I first met? I read it, of course, because I have always enjoyed rifling through your personal effects.”

“Know no shame,” Flint says. His voice has gone hoarse and he can feel tears prickling the corners of his eyes.

“Yes,” Silver says with a fleeting smile, his eyes gone pink-rimmed and watery. “I didn't want to embrace that idea, at first, because it's three little words that make it all sound so easy. But it's not easy, it isn't, it's just-- necessary, in order to be truly happy. That's what he meant, I think, between the lines. Feel free to correct me, I never actually met the man and I could be misinterpreting his words entirely,” Silver says with a brief, self-deprecating laugh.

“No, I think he'd agree with your interpretation,” Flint says with a little smile of his own, raising his free hand to his face to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. “I accept your apology, of course, that isn't even a question. I...I'm so grateful you've trusted me with all this, and words can't express how pleased I am that you've told me so much that's so...personal, for you. I know it's not easy,” he says sincerely. “Thank you, John. Truly.”

“Damn right it isn't easy, I'm breathing like I've been running and I think I'm sweating through your favorite shirt,” Silver jokes, shaking his head. He gives Flint’s hand a little pat, then pushes himself up from the table. “We should get to eating or supper will be cold,” he says, visibly relieved to have a distraction. “You stay there, I'll serve you,” he says, and starts piling food on a plate.

“You really are trying to fatten me up, aren't you. How will you cook me once it's all said and done?” Flint asks, amused.

“The only way that's appropriate, of course. On a spit, slow-roasted over a fire on the beach,” Silver says with a little smirk.

“With lots of honey?” Flint asks, grinning at him crookedly.

“Naturally,” Silver says, setting the plate down in front of Flint and making his own, then sitting down to supper with him.

Once they've eaten and the dishes have been cleared away, they linger at the table with a glass of port each, quietly celebrating their reconciliation. Silver begins to look anxious and fidgety halfway through his glass, and as usual Flint can't help but ask.

“Something bothering you?” he asks, studying Silver. The port is making his belly warm and his head a bit fuzzy, and he's enjoying it.

“No, just...there's one more thing,” Silver says. His face flushes underneath his impressive beard and he clears his throat, shifting around in his chair to get into his pocket. “This might be too much, you can tell me if it is. I may have overthought it,” he says, and then he's holding something out to Flint in the palm of his hand.

It's a ring, a fairly plain silver band with a small red stone set in the center, flanked by two tiny diamonds. The center stone seems familiar but the ring itself looks new. Flint reaches out to take it, looking questioningly at Silver.

“I took the stone from Madi’s old ring and had it made into something new. For you,” Silver says, and even with everything he said before, this is the most vulnerable Flint thinks he's seen him all night. “You don't have to wear it on-- _that_ finger. You don't have to wear it at all if it doesn't suit you. I just thought, I have it, and I didn't want to...keep the ring as it was, forever gathering dust and reminding me of my failures. I wanted to give it new life, as you've given me.”

“If this is your way of proposing to me, I accept,” Flint manages to say, even as he feels tears welling up again. He puts the ring on and admires it for a moment before leaning across the table, taking Silver’s face in both hands, and kissing him soundly several times.

“So you do like the ring, then,” Silver says breathlessly between kisses. He grins at Flint and kisses him again, then stands from the table and moves like he's in a hurry.

Flint catches him by the wrist and pulls him close, standing up so he can take Silver in his arms and hold him as they kiss, Flint’s fingers tangling in the curls at the back of Silver’s head.

“Bed?” Silver asks hopefully, one hand curling in Flint’s shirt at the small of his back, his hips already eagerly pressed to Flint’s own. It's been a while since either of them has been in this kind of mood, and to Flint it feels as though all the pent-up lust has suddenly rushed back into them both.

“Bed,” Flint confirms, backing Silver toward the staircase. He pauses there to press him against the side of it, his left hand snaking down between them to grab Silver’s cock through his trousers and squeeze.

“Fuck, I want you,” Silver pants, looking at Flint through his eyelashes.

“You’ll have me,” Flint assures him, purring in his ear. He pushes Silver’s shirt aside to bite down on his shoulder once, hard, then takes him by the hand and turns to lead him upstairs to their bedroom.

They can't seem to keep their hands or mouths off each other, making a racket on the stairs and stumbling all over each other, laughing, until finally they reach the bedroom. Silver has lost his shirt somewhere along the way and Flint quickly follows suit, stripping himself naked in short order.

Silver, sitting on the edge of the bed and struggling a bit with his trousers, pauses to just stare open-mouthed at Flint. “Fuck, you’re still so perfect,” he breathes. “After all these years.”

“You are fearfully and wonderfully made,” Flint replies, his voice husky with want. He helps Silver out of his trousers and breeches, then joins him in bed.

“Marvelous are thy works, and that my soul knoweth right well,” Silver pants, grinning, and takes Flint into his arms. His tattooed hands roam greedily all over Flint’s body, squeezing here and there. “Mm, please,” he says in his ear, rolling them over so he's on top of Flint.

“Yes,” Flint murmurs back, reaching out for the small bottle of oil they keep on the nightstand. He hands it to Silver, looking into his eyes for a long moment. He feels so much, so deeply for him, it's like his heart might burst from it.

Silver seems to sense what he's feeling and leans down, kissing Flint with surprising gentleness, then pressing their foreheads together when he pulls back. Meanwhile his clever hands get to work, opening the bottle of oil and pouring some over his fingers. He reaches down to start teasing Flint with his fingers, slowly and thoroughly working him open.

“Please hurry,” Flint says, not quite begging, closing his eyes and pushing down on Silver’s fingers. He's reveling in the feel of him after so many long days spent carefully avoiding each other’s touch.

“Shh. I need to go slow,” Silver says in his ear, kissing down along his neck and murmuring something about how he wants to taste every freckle.

“You won't hurt me,” Flint says, trying to talk Silver into getting inside him faster. He's aching for it, needing to be filled by him, taken by him.

“It isn't that, it's just been so long I'm afraid I'll come as soon as I get inside you,” Silver says breathlessly, blushing a little and grinning at Flint. He curls his fingers inside him, making Flint gasp.

“If you do we'll just go again later,” Flint says. “I know you can. _Please_ , John, fuck,” he says, his back arching, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

“Twist my arm,” Silver says under his breath, easing his fingers out of Flint. He pours more oil into his hand and slicks himself, then grasps Flint’s hip in one hand and guides himself inside, sinking home. “Ahh, fuck me,” he moans, taking Flint’s hips in both hands now and burying his face in his neck, starting to thrust slowly at first.

“More, come on, I need it,” Flint says, unable to keep from bossing Silver around just a little. “I need you,” he says, fingernails digging into Silver’s back, one leg coming up to wrap around his waist.

“Can you...? That's it, love,” Silver pants as he shifts Flint’s leg up over his broad shoulder instead. “Oh, _yes_ ,” he gasps, his eyes closing as he starts to fuck Flint in earnest, both hands braced on the bed for support.

Flint twists his hands in the sheets, swearing under his breath in a litany of filth as Silver fucks him thoroughly. “Just like that,” he moans, forcing his eyes open so he can see the ecstatic look on Silver’s face. “John, look at me,” he says, his chest heaving.

Silver opens his eyes and Flint can see they're shining, glittering with unshed tears. Silver must be feeling just as overwhelmed as he is, then. “James,” Silver rasps, nearly folding him in half with the force of his eager thrusts. “I can't, please, I'm going to--” he gasps, a single tear escaping and rolling down his cheek.

“Let go, that's it,” Flint says breathlessly, bringing one hand up to Silver’s face, brushing the tear away gently with his thumb.

Silver sobs once and thrusts faster still, coming inside Flint so powerfully that it makes Flint cry out in response. He gets one hand around himself as Silver’s thrusting slows, bringing himself off with a shout of pleasure.

Silver, ever the gentleman, eases Flint’s leg down off his shoulder before pulling out and collapsing on top of him, trying to get his breath back.

“Are you alright?” Flint asks, feeling Silver trembling on top of him. He puts both arms around him, feeling how he's shaking and holding him tight.

“I’m perfectly fine, that was just so fucking good,” Silver mumbles. He raises his head from Flint’s chest and kisses along his jaw up to his lips, smiling beatifically when he pulls away. His eyes are still shining and wide. “I’ve missed you,” he purrs, toying with the abundant white hairs on Flint’s freckled chest.

“And I you,” Flint says, watching him in amusement. He holds his left hand out, admiring the ring again. “This is really beautiful, you did an excellent job with it.”

“Thank you. I wanted to get it engraved on the inside, but what I had in mind was a bit too long to fit,” Silver says, rolling off Flint to lie next to him.

“What did you have in mind?” Flint asks, glancing over at him with one eyebrow raised.

Silver gives him a lovely soft smile and leans in close, his long hair like a curtain around them. “James, my first and last love,” he says in his ear, nuzzling his temple, “know no shame.”

 

\---

 

When Flint wakes the next morning he finds that Silver has already gotten out of bed, bathed, gotten dressed, and is downstairs sitting at the kitchen table writing a letter. His hair is damp around his shoulders and he's wearing a purple shirt that would look ridiculous on anyone else except maybe Jack Rackham.

“Good morning,” Silver murmurs when Flint steps into the kitchen, his quill pen scratching quickly over the paper. A steady rain is falling outside, and Flint can hear thunder rumbling in the distance.

“Hello,” Flint says, leaning down to kiss the top of Silver’s head in greeting. “Who are you writing?” he asks, peering curiously at the letter.

“Madi,” Silver replies, glancing up at him. “You can read it if you like. I'm not sure exactly where she lives now so I don't know if it'll reach her, but I thought I'd try. I owe her a response,” he says. He signs his name to the bottom of the letter and gets up from the table. “I’ll make the tea.”

Flint watches him for a moment, warring with himself before he speaks. “I have to tell you, I read the letter Madi sent you. I've been meaning to tell you for some time but I wasn't sure how you'd take it,” he says, feeling lingering shreds of guilt for what he did.

“I know,” Silver says, glancing at him in amusement. “I left it on the table that night on purpose, I knew you'd probably want to read it. I'm not angry,” he says as he starts on their tea.

“Oh. Well, good,” Flint says, a little bemused with himself for assuming Silver wouldn't want him to read Madi’s letter. He picks up the one Silver has written in reply and is surprised to see it's very short, only a handful of lines.

‘Dearest Madi,’ it begins, ‘I have found peace and am living well. I have truly been given new life and I could not be happier. Thank you. Yours always, John.’

Flint sets the paper down, feeling his heart beating a little faster at the contents of the brief but heartfelt letter. He comes up behind Silver and slides his arms around him, nuzzling into his clean hair and inhaling the gorgeous, familiar scent of him. 

“I love you,” he says lowly, feeling a pleasant flutter in his stomach the way he always does when he says those words to Silver.

“Because I'm making you tea?” Silver teases him gently, then leans back against him with a sigh of contentment. “I love you, too.”


End file.
